O Captain!
by Weirdly
Summary: A songfic type of deal to a Walt Whitman poem. After the final battle, a young Auror who Harry was close to grieves. There is mention of HarryGinny. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine; nor is O Captain! My Captain! Captain was written by Walt Whitman, just in case you don't catch it at the end of the poem.**

**A/N: This is a little bit dense, I'm sorry. Basically: Harry killed Voldemort and got killed himself. Most of the people he loved are dead, and now a young...Auror? Soldier?...is mourning Harry's loss at the end of the battle. I'll probably rewrite this to make it less dense, but for now...sorry.**

_O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,_

_The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,_

_The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,_

_While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring,_

_But O heart! heart! heart!_

_O the bleeding drops of red,_

_Where on the deck my Captain lies,_

_Fallen cold and dead._

_-_

_O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;_

_Rise up – for you the flag is flung – for you the bugle trills,_

_For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths – for you the shores a-crowding,_

_For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;_

_Here Captain! dear father!_

_The arm beneath your head!_

_It is some dream that on the deck,_

_You 've fallen cold and dead._

_-_

_My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still._

_My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will,_

_The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,_

_From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won:_

_Exult O shores, and ring O bells!_

_But I with mournful tread,_

_Walk the deck my Captain lies,_

_Fallen cold and dead._

_-_

_By Walt Whitman, from _Leaves of Grass

Wake! Wake! Harry, you're dear to me; do not leave me now—Voldemort is killed and gone—the battle is won!

Harry, you cannot be dead, upon this barren heath. The phoenixes are singing in joy for Voldemort's demise—must your death come as well?

Soon the flaming birds, I know, will sing for grief. Grief for your fallen form—

O, Harry just listen to the phoenixes—listen to the Order's exultation—hear the world's joy! For you they shout; for you they sing; for you the fireworks explode in the sky; for you they must cry.

There, Harry, there! The crowd of people, a swaying mass. They hold ribbons, bright and beautiful. Can you not see them?

No, it must be a dream that upon this ground you've fallen, cold and dead. No—you do not answer—the grass must scratch you, but you cannot feel it—your wrists hold no pulse—

O, Captain, my Captain; the hero of our world—talk to me—you must be merely pale and still—No!—Not dead!—You cannot be dead—this must be a dream—

But you cannot feel my arm. No blood rushes through your veins; no will holds your mind together.

But O, you people who have not known my Captain; exult—rejoice—the war is won! Voldemort is gone!—but so is my Captain, Harry, the best of the Aurors, my hero, your hero—gone, cold, dead—

I know that if his wife, Ginny, was yet alive she would scream and scream and scream; but now my Captain finally joins them; his wife, his best friends.

Exult! Rejoice! Indeed the war is won! You who did not know my Captain, shout with your joy in newfound security!

But while you do, here I pace, beside where Harry lies. My mournful tread echoes on the bloodstained heath in the sudden silence.

Now, now the phoenixes sing in grief; the grief that comes of one so good leaving the world.

But none can know my feelings, when Harry Potter, my captain, my hero, lies at my feet, killed by evil.

The mass of people—muggle and wizard alike—wait for you! Their eager faces turn up and try to see you—you are their hero!—but you lie, Harry, upon the ground. Blood flecks your face where you coughed in your last moments.

Dead! Dead, I tell you, people! O, wizards and muggles, celebrate, although your savior is upon the ground!

I raise him up; his head flops down.

They see his death and the phoenixes' keens grow in sound—swelling—swelling upwards into a great mass of grief and beauty—

Then Harry, my Captain, bursts into flame. His body disintegrates but the blue fire does not hurt me.

Ah, world, do not consume yourself with grief; your Captain—O Captain!—lies no longer cold and dead; his ashes commune with the Earth and speak with Sky; burn in Fire and soak in Water.

_The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done._

Goodbye, Captain, my Captain. You will always be remembered.

**A/N (#2!): Eh, I don't know about this story. It's okay, I suppose.**

**Did you know, I just read a fic where Bush was trying to take over the world? Like, literally take over the world? The author was serious, too. I laughed so hard. Okay, sorry if I offended anyone with that. I am not a great fan of Bush myself, but that is just too funny.**


End file.
